


Strange Magic: Runaway Bride AU

by abutterflyobsession



Series: Strange Magic Tumblr Prompts [1]
Category: Strange Magic (2015), Strange Magic - Fandom, strange magic movie - Fandom
Genre: Drabble, Drabble Collection, F/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Tumblr Prompt, angsty with a touch of laughter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-27
Updated: 2018-09-27
Packaged: 2019-07-18 08:20:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16114532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abutterflyobsession/pseuds/abutterflyobsession
Summary: Marianne runs out on her wedding-day, and runs into Bog, who's fiance just left him at the altar for her long-lost high-school sweetheart. They end up talking about it. (sent by elf-kid2)





	1. Runaway Bride AU

“Nice dress.”

“Thanks. It has pockets.”

The battered-looking bride stuck her hands in the aforementioned pockets and leaned her back against the wall. She had appeared only a few moments previously by coming over the top of the wall, skirt bunched up in a fist and runs up and down her white stockings. Bog had stopped fiddling with his unopened pack of cigarettes while he watched the bride’s descent into the sand, the beating of his heart put on hold while he waited to see if the bride was who he hoped it was.

It wasn’t.

“Yes, this is a wedding dress,” the bride said, answering his unspoken question, “I was supposed to be walking up the aisle–” she pulled her phone out of her pocket, “–seven minutes ago.”

“I did that about half an hour ago myself.”

“Oh? I thought you were one of our guests.”

“No. I was supposed to be a groom.”

“Supposed to be?”

“I got replaced at the last minute. which really shouldn’t be a surprise but–”

But it hurt. Ever since the engagement he had asked again and again if this was what she wanted, if she was happy, if he was the one for her. And she had said yes to every question so firmly that he had let himself believe it. Then the door had burst open and a man–a _handsome_ man–had declared his love for her and everything had been chaos.

“Ah.” the bride winced sympathetically, “I found out that I was a business arrangement when he accidentally double booked with his play-date.”

She held up her fist. She was wearing white gloves that went up past her elbows. The knuckles were stained with red.

“I don’t look good in white.”

“You look nice.” Bog felt his face blooming red and prayed she didn’t think he was trying to hit on her. The last thing she needed was some ghoul capping off her bad day by leering at her. She did look nice, though. There was something dramatically pleasing about her smirk of triumph contrasted with the ragged edges of her bridal gown fluttering in the breeze off the ocean.

“Nice tux,” the bride remarked, “nice flower.”

Bog glanced down at the small arrangement of pink flowers in the buttonhole of his jacket. She’d put it there herself. He snatched it off and kicked it into the sand. He didn’t like tuxes, he didn’t like fussy little flowers.

“I sent my groom to the hospital,” the bride said, “what happened to your better half that was to have been?”

“She married the other guy.”

“Ouch. Yuck. That’s … tasteless.”

Bog glowered out at the water, “everyone thought it was romantic. Did you really send him to the hospital?”

“He wouldn’t risk his nose healing crooked.”

Bog chuckled. “Well done.”

“You should have decked her,” the bride said, “and the other guy.”


	2. Chapter 2

“You gonna smoke those or just keep admiring the packaging?”

The runaway bride was eying the carton of cigarettes in Bog’s hands with a look of keen interest. Bog tore it open and offered the pack to her. “Smoke?”

“ _Please_.” She snatched one and took a deep breath as if the cigarette was already lit. “Got a light?”

“What, none in those nifty pockets?”

“There wasn’t room to fit it in next to my blackjack.”

Bog smiled, tight and thin, reaching into his pocket for his lighter. Only after his hand rummaged uselessly through the note cards for his speech at the reception did he remember he didn’t have a lighter.

“Oh. That’s right.” He rubbed his neck and hunched over sheepishly, “I threw it out when I quit smoking two years ago.”

“You are useless to me!” the bride spiked the cigarettes into the sand. She slumped back against the wall and folded her arms. “Just as well, saved me from myself. I quit last year.”

Bog chuckled. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. My sister and I swore a pact to give it up. And Roland was complaining about the smell all the time–”

From the way that the bride’s face twisted up Bog assumed this Roland was her former husband-to-be.

“Ugh, now I want to light up just to spite him. I’m craving one so bad too.”

“Same here,” Bog sighed. He’d been fighting a longing for a smoke ever since he somehow choked out a faltering proposal. He’d considered doing it from the stage when the band was playing. The energy of performing always boosted his confidence. In the end he’d decided against it and opted for a private popping of the question. Doing it on stage in front of an audience of strangers seemed tacky and pressuring.

“Why is smoking such a socially accepted vice?” The bride wondered, “If I was addicted to crack at least I wouldn’t see a display of it every time I went to the store. At least I won’t have to face my sister in a smoky cloud of shame. I did promise and unlike some people I try and keep my promises.”

Bog kicked sand over the cigarettes. “Should pick these up or the seagulls might develop bad habits.”

Silence fell between them and they stared out over the ocean. The weather was beautiful and the ocean was a dazzling blue. An ideal backdrop for weddings and romance. He ground his teeth together and looked over at the bride. She was tense and her eyes were deep with pain.

“Did you love her?” She asked in a cracked voice.

The answer took a little time to work its way free of his tight throat. “Yes. Still do.”

“That’s the worst part. I really loved him. I really love him right now and I really hate him too. It feels awful.”

“I guess that’s why the heart breaks. One half is hate, the other half love. Hm, that sounded so sappy. Maybe I’ll use it in a song.”

“I wish it was just all hate.”

“Me too.”


	3. Chapter 3

“This has been the worst day of my life. And it’s not even over.”

“Don’t remind me,” the bride groaned. She ran her hand through her hair, bobby-pins working free and bouncing off her shoulders into the sand. “Everyone is still back there waiting for me.”

Fresh pain struck Bog. There wasn’t anyone waiting for him. The celebration continued. It had only paused to push Bog out of the way, out of the life he had been stupid enough to believe belonged to him.

“I can’t …” Bog shook his head, “I can’t go back–I-I can’t …”

No, no, no, the tears were pouring down his face. Each deep breath he took to calm himself came back out again in rough sobs. He covered his face and tried to swallow the tears that made his heart lurch back and forth.

Something bounced off the side of his head and he flailed his arms around to catch it.

It was a package of tissues.

“Pockets.” the bride said.

“Thanks.”

“I thought I’d need them for my sister. She’s a romantic. I’m–I’m Marianne, by the way.”

Under the cover of blowing his nose Bog took a moment to decide what name to give. His given name of Broden was bad enough, what would she think of–

“Bog.”

“Bob?”

“Bog. Like a swamp.”

“Get out, that’s not your name.”

“Well, it is. Maybe I just should have said it was Bob.”

“That might have been worse. You don’t look like a Bob. You look more like a David Bowie.”

“Uh, thanks. I think.”

“So, Bowie, for one reason or another neither of us are going back … what’ll we do instead? Sit on the dunes and exchange more sad stories?”

It wasn’t clear to Bog when this had become a ‘we’ situation, but he didn’t mind that it had.

 


	4. Chapter 4

“I’ve heard it’s death that makes the ocean air smell like it does. Plankton and seaweed decaying …”

“Cheerful. But thematically appropriate.” Marianne said indifferently. 

As indifferently as she could be while using one of her gloves to scrub away tears. They kept leaking out at unexpected moments.

“Sorry if I’m killing the romance for you.” Bog replied, jerking his shoulder in a brief shrug. 

His nose was very long and currently very red, the rest of his face mottled to match. Marianne was trying not to stare but the raw pain on his sharp face drew her eyes to him. It was rare to see a man display so much emotion. From the way he turned his head away she could tell he was ashamed of it.

“Don’t worry, someone else beat romance to death before you showed up. From now on I swear off romance and will only be involved with Romance, capital R. Only ghosts and haunted castles and beating rain from now on.”

“You know …” Bog gave a small laugh, “that means right now it’s very Romantic, the two of us. Broken hearts and beating waves.”

“Oh, no, you’re right. Are broken knuckles Romantic, too?” Marianne was trying to peel her other glove off and the process was stabbing her fingers with pain. She was really out of practice. Once upon a time she would never had such poor form as to injure herself with smashing someone’s face in.

“Are you–?” Bog started to ask.

“I’m _fine_.” Marianne pulled a pocket knife out and tried to pull out the scissors. It would be easier to just cut the glove off a piece at a time instead of tugging at her fingers.

“How–how deep are those pockets?”

“It’s better if you don’t know. Ow!” Marianne dropped the pocket knife.

Bog picked it up and brushed off the sand. He made a tentative gesture to hand it to her, but then pulled back a step and picked at the notches on the knife. He sniffed a few times and cleared his throat before speaking again.

“I could–I understand if you don’t–in return for the tissues …?”

Marianne blinked her sore eyes once or twice at the garbled offer. Bog, this huge, looming tower of a man, looked like he was ready to bolt at the first sign of a negative reply. He seemed to expect it.

“Sorry,” he said quickly, “never mind–”

“I could use a hand here,” Marianne interrupted, holding out her arm.

Bog looked twice as wary now. He glanced around nervously, as if expecting Marianne to suddenly shout, “Surprise!” and deal out the second broken nose of the day. Marianne felt a rush of anger heating up in her chest. How could–how _dare_ someone hurt him so badly. He was so tall and broad shouldered but something in his eyes showed a fragile sensitivity, that he was easily hurt. And someone–someone who was about to _marry_ him, that held his delicate heart in their hands … they just _smashed_ it, like it was nothing.

“Just cut down to my knuckles and I think I can manage from there,” Marianne said.

Carefully, Bog took her wrist to steady her arm, and began to snip through the fabric. Marianne had thought he would rush through the operation in order to retreat as quickly as possible, but actually he worked slowly, taking care not to let his shaking hands let the scissors veer off course. Once he had split the glove down to her wrist he curled his free hand under her fingers and began the tricky task of removing the bits of glove stuck to her blood-crusted knuckles.

He kept looking up, his hands posed to pull away, only continuing when he saw that Marianne wasn’t … what was he checking for? Pain? Anger? An incoming slap?

Tears were coming again. Because her hand hurt. Because her heart hurt. Because this man had just been destroyed inside and was still so gentle and considerate to a stranger.


	5. Chapter 5

“Why wasn’t I enough?”

Bog looked up from wrapping Marianne’s hand in his handkerchief. It was silver-gray and his girlfriend–his ex-girlfriend had said it suited him. Seeing it put to an unintended use somehow soothed him. It took it out of the horrible context of the day.

“Hm?” He asked.

“Why … why wasn’t I enough for him?” Marianne spoke in a whisper. “I did everything I could to make him happy, I tried so hard to be what he wanted me to. Look at this dress!”

The command was so forceful Bog did look. It was a nice dress, as he had noted before. It was sort of light with a sort of sheen, suited for the warm weather except for the high decorative collar that fanned around her neck. It was suffering from having been dragged over a wall, but otherwise nice.

“Um.” Bog said helplessly.

“It would suit Dawn down to the ground but I just look stupid! But I wore it anyway because it’s what he wanted me to wear! What did I do wrong? What did I not do? Is it just because–because I’m … me?”

“No!”

The denial exploded out of Bog. Seeing Marianne ripping herself apart for someone who had deliberately betrayed her made him furious. His own circumstances were so different: for his girlfriend it hadn’t been premeditated, it had been a matter of her coming to her senses at the last minute. Whoever Marianne had punched had been consciously playing her the whole time. He had someone so beautiful and treated her so badly.

“No! It’s not your fault! You’re strong and–and beautiful! You saw him for what he was and just punched him and walked away, didn’t you?”

“I didn’t even hesitate, but maybe I was reckless, maybe I should have listened–”

“No! You saw the truth and knew what you had to do! I thought all along something was wrong with us, but I couldn’t face the truth, but you did! You did the right thing.”

Marianne grabbed him, hooking her arm around his neck and pulling him down into a hug. He was shaking with anger toward Marianne’s betrayer, too full of it to be as flustered as he normally would with physical affection, though his face grew hot.

Marianne hugged him with a fierceness some someone who never did anything half-heartedly. “I think you’re going to be the only person who says that to me today.”

Hands at his sides, Bog swallowed hard and forced himself to speak, “Then I’m glad I did.”


	6. Chapter 6

“Are you going to be okay?”

The mirror was never one to flatter him, but today it seemed particularly vindictive toward Bog. It was amazing how many times he could shave in a day and still have stubble shadowing his face before the sun even had time to set.

Bog was back in his hotel room. The bags he had packed for the honeymoon were by the door where he’d left them, and his traveling clothes still tossed over the back of a chair. He changed into them for lack of anything better to do and because he couldn’t wear a ruined tuxedo forever. 

It already felt like he had been wearing it forever.

He sat on the edge of the bed, at a loss for what to do next. There were plane tickets and reservations to cancel, gifts to return, phone calls to make. He had to call work and tell them his vacation had been called off. He would have to tell people over and over what happened and see their looks of embarrassment and pity again and again …

Maybe he better take the time off after all.

“Are you going to be okay?” Marianne had asked when he said he should go.

“Does it even matter?” He had replied.

“Depends who you’re asking,” Marianne shrugged.

“Guess I have to be.”

What else could he do.

He shoved his tux in a plastic bag and gathered it up with the rest of his belongings. Time to be a grown up and face the world. Find a cab, find his way home, and … and go back to whatever it was that he did before she had come into his life. Try and find something to fill the hole that had been ripped out of his life. Walk out the door of his hotel room. Back … back home. To an apartment that was all packed up because they were going to look for a house when they got back.

Everything hit him again. Slammed into his stomach like a fist to send him reeling to the ground. He kept thinking he had used up all his tears but he kept finding new reserves to tap into it. It hurt his tired body and he wanted it to stop so he could fall asleep and not think anymore. But there was no way out. There was no way to feel better.

Except, maybe …

His shaking hands skimmed through the contacts on his phone until he found the new entry of “Pocket-Sized Bride”. Marianne had punched his shoulder for that. He’d punched _her_ shoulder when he saw she’d put him down as “Stork-Legged Scot”.

 _I’m not okay_ , he texted.

Her reply came almost immediately: _me neither_

Somehow he forced his shaking hands to type, somehow he poured out the messy stew of his thoughts into messages. Marianne sent back her own. Somehow, Bog made it through the door and into a cab. Somehow Marianne got into her car and sent a message to her sister to come get her. Their trips home were broken up by long rambling texts, some full of pain, some of anger. Somewhere in all that they managed to crack a few jokes and send each other song playlists. And some messages that just said: _it hurts_

Somehow they got to their respective homes and fell into their beds, blessed exhaustion forcing them into the welcome oblivion of sleep. Bog still typed on his phone, eyes bleary.

_I’m not okay_

_we don’t have to be_

It had somehow become a ‘we’ situation. Somehow he had met a friend when his whole world was falling apart. Maybe– _maybe–_ it was a world worth rebuilding, if just so there was a place to keep that friend.

They would think about that tomorrow.


End file.
